


what light brings

by AkitaFallow



Series: Prompt Fills [3]
Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Alternate Ending, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Multi, Not A Fix-It, Post-Chapter 14, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-02
Updated: 2017-09-02
Packaged: 2018-12-22 19:20:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,587
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11974014
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AkitaFallow/pseuds/AkitaFallow
Summary: When the sun suddenly rises after ten years of darkness and there's been no sign of their King, Prompto, Ignis, and Gladiolus know that Noct's returned. They don't know why he didn't meet them at Hammerhead—they're a little miffed, if they're honest—but he probably had his reasons. All they have to do now is go to Insomnia, find his sorry ass, and drag him back for a proper reunion (and maybe a telling-off or two).They're not prepared for what they find.





	what light brings

**Author's Note:**

> A fill for [this prompt](https://ffxv-kinkmeme.dreamwidth.org/4113.html?thread=6540561) on the FFXV kinkmeme:
> 
> "Knowing that he's going to die, Noctis skips over Hammerhead and just goes straight to Insomnia instead of reuniting with his bros because he's afraid to lose his resolve if he sees them.
> 
> When the darkness clears up and the sun rises, the guys realize that it must be Noct. They're a little miffed that he didn't take them with him, but they go to Insomnia mostly excited just to have him back after ten years. Then they arrive at the citadel and find his body on the throne..."
> 
> \--
> 
> This was supposed to be about 2000 words???

 

 

 

 

When the dawn comes, Prompto swears up and down that he’s hallucinating.  
  
It wouldn’t really be that much of a stretch. There’s only so much fighting daemons and running from daemons and pretending not to be afraid of daemons that one guy can take before he just cracks, right? He’s spent way too many nights dreaming about it; makes sense that he’d start seeing it when he’s awake.  
  
But, as it brightens and begins to wash an orange glow through the harsh burning light that’s covered Hammerhead for a decade, painting the sand burnt yellow instead of blueish-white for the first time in years, he starts to think that maybe… maybe he’s not.  
  
“No way…” Cindy murmurs from a few feet to his left, where she’s been servicing Talcott’s truck for another supply run. “Is that…?”  
  
“The sun,” Prompto breathes. Something in his chest is feeling tight enough to squeeze all the air out of his lungs.  
  
Cindy swears loudly and throws her wrench on the ground. “Paw-paw!” she hollers, sprinting toward the garage even as her voice cracks. “Paw-paw!”  
  
Prompto can only stare, transfixed, as the eastern horizon continues to gain definition—he can actually make out the silhouette of the hills surrounding Insomnia. The sky continues to brighten, revealing a few scattered clouds that he hadn’t seen against the pitch black. He doesn’t register Cindy returning, her father clinging solidly to her arm.  
  
He does when Cid starts cackling like a maniac, though.  
  
“Would you look at that!” he says between howls. “Didn’t think I’d live to see it!” He leans more heavily on Cindy, wiping a few tears from his eyes that he would probably swear were just from laughter. They all know better, but seeing as how Cindy’s eyes are streaming and Prompto can feel the pressure building behind his own, they aren’t going to say anything.  
  
A sudden warmth on his face makes him turn, and Prompto’s breath is stolen again as the first rays of true sunshine tumble to the ground around them.

 

* * *

 

Iris notices it first.  
  
“Gladdy,” she says suddenly as they make their way up a hill to the haven they’re looking to camp at. He stops and turns toward her, grunting in askance, but she’s not looking at him.  
  
She’s looking to the east.  
  
“It’s getting brighter,” she whispers. Gladio looks past her to the horizon.  
  
She’s not wrong.  
  
They’re frozen solid as they watch the impossible sunrise. Suddenly their flashlights are obsolete as the ground around them gains definition. The blue of the haven at their backs fades as its light is overruled. Slowly they can see the road they’d just left, and the hillocks and scrub brush beyond. Colours leech back into the world one by one, a backwards fade, and the world expands around them.  
  
Gladio’s mind is a pile of white noise, his hands shaking as they grip his sword. How…?  
  
The sun breaks the horizon, and it’s almost blinding. But neither of them take their eyes off it.  
  
And then the silence is broken by the sound of chocobos.  
  
Gladio flinches, his hand automatically going to the phone tucked solidly in a zippered pocket. He pulls it out, fingers numb, and fumbles to answer.  
  
“ _ARE YOU FUCKING SEEING THIS_?” Prompto’s voice cracks like a teenager’s as it screams through the speaker.  
  
“Seeing,” Gladio says, voice rough. “Still working on believing.”  
  
“The sun! The real godsdamned sun! I thought I was dreaming, man, there’s no _fucking way_ —”  
  
“Prompto,” he cuts off the babbling. “I need you to call Ignis, and then meet me at Hammerhead.”  
  
“Already there, dude, way ahead of you—”  
  
“Just call Ignis.” And then he hangs up.  
  
Iris hasn’t moved.  
  
Gladio steps forward and puts a gentle hand on her shoulder. She’s shaking, and when he steps close enough he can see that her hands are clapped firmly over her mouth as tears stream down her face. At his touch she startles slightly, and then slowly lowers her hands. Her breaths are ragged.  
  
“The sunrise,” she says unsteadily. “I haven’t…” She looks up at Gladio, and behind the tears there’s something growing, something he hasn’t seen since she was a teenager. It blossoms out of her, and suddenly she’s grinning so widely that it’s almost splitting her face. “The _sun_!” she shrieks, and leaps into the air, throwing both her arms around his neck and wrapping her legs around his waist.  
  
Gladio catches her, and he feels something he hasn’t felt in a long time bubbling up out of his chest.  
  
_Laughter_.

 

* * *

 

Ignis doesn’t notice until one of the goblins he’s fighting gives a deafening shriek that ends in a sickening squelch and fades away into nothing.  
  
As if on cue, the other two scream as well, and by the time the echo fades from his ears there’s nothing but silence and the feeling of emptiness around him. Ignis stays crouched, daggers clutched so tightly in his hands that he can feel his gloves straining. This is unexpected, and he doesn’t like unexpected.  
  
He listens closely, ears and nose tuned for any movement around him, any sense of where the daemons have gone, but there’s just… quiet.  
  
That’s when he feels the warmth on his face.  
  
He doesn’t loosen his grip on his daggers, but instead turns toward the offending sense. He didn’t hear any fire daemons appear or approach, but perhaps he missed them over the screams of the goblins. The feeling continues to grow, and he readies himself for whatever attack might be coming.  
  
That’s when his phone rings.  
  
Ignis takes two slashes at the direction the heat is coming from before throwing himself back the twenty feet to the haven he’d staked out as his most recent base. Safely on the warded stones and away from the unknown daemon, he pulls out his phone as it gives a fourth loud ‘ _kweh!_ ’ Prompto never calls these days, not unless it’s a matter of immediate importance, so Ignis holds his breath as he answers.  
  
“Hey Iggy, you’re seeing this, right? No, wait, fuck, of course you’re not, sorry—Gods, sorry, but you know it’s happening, right? With like your awesome sixth sense or whatever—”  
  
“Prompto,” Ignis interrupts. “ _What’s_ happening?”  
  
Prompto stops abruptly, and then exhales shakily. “Fuck, you _don’t_ know, shit—okay. Okay. You might wanna sit down or something, ’cause I almost passed out—”  
  
“ _Prompto_.”  
  
“The sun’s up.”  
  
Ignis’ world grinds to a halt. He can still feel the warmth on his face, the chill that he’s always associated with the darkness no longer pulling quite so firmly at his skin, but he didn’t… he hadn’t…  
  
“Noct,” he breathes.

 

* * *

 

“What’s he thinking, going off on his own?” Gladio growls first thing after he and Iris pull into Hammerhead just after noon.  
  
Prompto shrugs. “Maybe he didn’t get the message?”  
  
There’s a tense moment as they consider it—because what would it be like, coming back from wherever-the-hell-the-Crystal-took-him and having no word from anyone? Where would he even think to go, in a world where the light is missing and daemons haunt every step?  
  
Prompto shudders.  
  
“He probably got it but ignored it like he always does,” Gladio says finally. “You said Umbra was reliable.”  
  
“He is,” Prompto insists. “But maybe… I mean, who knows where Noct showed up? Maybe he got lost.”  
  
Gladio snorts, but drops it. There’s no real point in arguing about it until they can ask Noctis himself.  
  
It’s another few hours before Ignis walks through the gates.  
  
“A bit disconcerting to navigate when everything’s warmer,” he says before anyone can ask, even though they weren’t going to. “Sounds move… differently.”  
  
Prompto notices he’s still gripping his daggers in both hands even as they move to the caravan to talk, but doesn’t say anything. He’s had his own hand resting pretty firmly on his gun ever since the light came back.  
  
“So,” Ignis says as they settle in the chairs outside—none of them are really willing to go inside, not yet. “What now?”  
  
“Obviously he’s back,” Gladio grunts. “Went and did all the dirty work without us.” There’s a bitter edge to his voice, a hurt he probably wouldn’t let show if it was still dark—if there wasn’t something raw showing in all of them right now.  
  
“I’m sure there’s a reason. We’ve come too far to jump to the worst conclusions.”  
  
“Iggy’s right,” Prompto says, voice a little more excited than he really feels. “I betcha he just didn’t get the message, so he has no idea where we are. Can’t really let us know if he doesn’t know, right?”  
  
“And if he did?”  
  
Prompto shrugs. “Maybe he’ll meet us here. Dunno about you, but whatever took ten years in the Crystal probably wasn’t something we could really help with.” He winces as he says it, but it’s not exactly false.  
  
Gladio scowls down at his hands, but his eyebrows are inching a little farther apart.  
  
(It’s hard to stay mad when the sun’s beating down on them. Prompto can already feel his skin starting to crisp, pale as it is now, and he doesn’t care even a little bit.)  
  
“I have a suggestion,” Ignis says after a while, pulling off his gloves and stretching his hands out in the sunbeams falling on the overheated table. “We wait a few days—” Gladio makes a noise of protest, but Ignis talks over him, “—and, _if_ Noctis doesn’t make his way here in that time, we assume he didn’t get the message, and go and seek him ourselves.” His hands curl, fingernails tapping on the worn plastic. “No point in going immediately, especially if we just end up missing him on the way.”  
  
Gladio’s teeth clench for a second before he sighs. “You’re right. As usual.”  
  
Prompto pats the big guy on the shoulder. “I thought we all learned by now that Specs is the smartest out of all of us.”

 

* * *

 

The first time the sun sets, they’re all sitting out on the roof of the garage. The clouds from earlier have dispersed entirely, and the western horizon is ablaze with orange and pink as the sun sinks toward Ravatogh.  
  
“It’s so beautiful,” Iris says quietly. There are tears running unabashedly down her cheeks.  
  
“You’re telling me,” Prompto says quietly. He’s sitting between Ignis and Cindy, hands clenched tightly around one of their few remaining cans of cheap sparkling wine.  
  
(“Might as well, seein’ as it’s probably the best thing to happen to anyone in forever,” Cindy said as she passed them out after dinner.)  
  
They all watch quietly, entranced, as the sun sinks lower, the oranges fading into reds and purples and then finally into deep indigo as it vanishes behind the volcano. There’s something tugging painfully at Prompto’s chest, and it takes him a moment to realize it’s anxiety. He listens intently, heart in his throat, as the darkness deepens, but all he hears is the breathing of the people around him. There’s nothing else—no rush of movement, no cackles or snarls or deep groans, and… no daemons. His eyes dart over to where the blue glow still touches the horizon, and he can’t help but fidget.  
  
“It’ll come back,” Ignis says suddenly, a hand firmly on Prompto’s shoulder. Prompto looks over at him—Ignis’ useless eyes are closed as the last of the daylight fades, and he wonders how it feels, not being able to see what they’re seeing. He imagines it’s heartbreaking, but there are a lot of things like that these days. “We’ll feel its warmth again soon enough.”  
  
Gladio leans back on his hands, staring up into the darkening sky. “Just a few hours away.”  
  
Later on, as the darkness sets in fully in the surrounding scrub brush, Cindy makes her way down to the massive daemon-repelling floodlights and jams the switch off for the first time in a decade. The relative dimness of Hammerhead’s regular lighting is almost impossible to see for the first minute as their eyes slowly adjust, but after that…  
  
They see the stars.  
  
(Gladio doesn’t cry. It’s just dust. They’re in the desert.)  
  
No one dies. No daemons appear. Nothing happens, except for Cid shouting something unintelligible as he stumbles over a pipe while getting a drink.  
  
No one can sleep, of course, but it’ll take time.  
  
They sit up on the roof until the sky begins to lighten in the east, and watch their second sunrise with no less awe than the first.

 

* * *

 

They make it until just after noon the next day before they crack.  
  
“Guess he’s not coming,” Gladio grunts.  
  
“It would seem not,” Ignis agrees, his hand on his chin thoughtfully at the caravan’s outdoor table where they’re having lunch. “Surely he’d be here by now if he was.” He ignores the fact that it’s been less than twenty-four hours. There’s a tension in his gut that says waiting is not the best choice after all. _Maybe he has no method of transport. Or he was waylaid on the road. Or he’s too injured to make his way here. Or he doesn’t care to come back._ _  
  
_ It’s always been Ignis’ job to be prepared in any circumstance, to categorize the most likely scenarios. It’s usually a comfort, but he can’t help but feel a little apprehensive—it’s been ten years. A lot can happen in that time. A lot can change.  
  
He shoves it aside as a problem for later. They have a king to find.  
  
A chair scrapes and cutlery rattles as Prompto presumably flops into his chair and pulls a bowl toward himself. “We’re gonna go find him, then?”  
  
“Always gotta do the princess’ work for him,” Gladio complains, but there’s a little smirk in his voice. He’s been ready to go since they arrived, though they’ve all gotten more than a little twitchy with the need to _do something_.  
  
“We’d best be well prepared,” Ignis advises. “We have no idea what state the world is in now.”  
  
“No daemons, that’s all I care about,” Prompto laughs, and the leather of his jacket creaks as he stretches. “And I’m not gonna complain about the chance to get out in this sunshine!”  
  
Ignis lets a smile cross his face as he turns it upwards, feeling the warmth brush his cheeks and neck.  
  
“Can’t argue with that,” Gladio says.

 

* * *

 

Cindy gives them Talcott’s truck.  
  
“The kid won’t be needin’ it for awhile,” she says when they put up a token protest. “Got him runnin’ around the hills tryna find out what’s still alive. Don’t reckon there’ll be much, but him ‘n’ Dave can take care a’themselves. Besides,” and here she winks at them all playfully, “gotta have the best for the King.”  
  
It’s gonna a bit of a squeeze to get them all in, and Gladio is seriously questioning how they’re gonna fit Noct in on top of it, but Prompto quickly volunteers to ride in the back if need be.  
  
“He’s probably gonna want to stretch out and sleep anyway, and I can make sure he doesn’t fall out or something! Win-win for everybody.”  
  
They throw some provisions in the back along with Ignis’ old tent (the one in the best shape of all of them) and some camping supplies. Iris scowls up at him as he turns away from the tailgate.  
  
“I’m coming along,” she says for the fourth time that day.  
  
“No you’re not,” Gladio replies calmly.  
  
“What the fuck, Gladio? I’m not a little kid any more! I can take care of myself!”  
  
He sighs and turns back to her. She’s standing not with her fists balled at her sides and her eyebrows drawn together in a pout like she would have as a teen, but with her arms crossed steadily and a glare that reminds him of his mother plastered across her face. “This’s got nothing to do with you being a kid,” he says firmly. When she opens her mouth to reply, he holds up a hand. “It doesn’t. And lemme tell you why.” He sweeps his hand around him to encompass Hammerhead. “You think this place is just gonna run itself? Cindy’s got her hands full getting the garage back up and running and makin’ sure Cid doesn’t run out into the wild thinking he’s thirty again. Dave’s gonna get back soon, but until then he’s out with Talcott and you’re the one in charge. After that…” He gives her a steady look. “I know you’re gonna want to go back to Lestallum.”  
  
Iris doesn’t flush, but she looks down at the reminder. “I can just call her,” she mumbles, even though they both know it’s not the same as actually being with her girlfriend.  
  
Gladio turns and heaves the tailgate closed before looking over his shoulder at her. “Besides… This is something we gotta do. Just the three of us.”  
  
“For old time’s sake,” Iris finishes with a sigh. “Yeah… I know.”

 

* * *

 

By mutual unspoken agreement, they don’t stop for the night. Prompto leans his head out the open passenger window and looks up at the stars, letting the evening breeze ruffle his hair. There’s something almost painfully nostalgic about it—the open road, the rumble of the engine the only sound in the night, and the stars hanging bright and twinkling over them. (He’ll never get tired of them, not in a million years.) There’s not even a whiff of daemon in the air, the headlights illuminating nothing but the empty world around them, and there’s two people to his left that he’d give his life for.  
  
Just like old times.  
  
Now all that’s missing is Noct.  
  
“What do you think he’s like now?” he asks suddenly.  
  
“Older, I imagine,” Ignis says after a moment.  
  
“Not necessarily.” Gladio taps the fingers of his right hand on the top of the wheel, leaning against his left fist with his elbow propped in his own window. “Who knows how time works inside the Crystal.”  
  
Prompto thinks about that for a second. “So… maybe _I’m_ older than _him_ now?” He pumps a fist. “Not the youngest anymore!”  
  
Gladio snorts, and even Ignis lets out a dry chuckle. The quiet of the night engulfs the truck cab for another few minutes.  
  
“I hope he’s waiting for us.”  
  
Gladio looks over at him. “You know he’s probably napping on the throne like a lazy ass. He did all the hard work, now we gotta go get him.”  
  
Ignis leans forward in his seat. “Let us hope that it’s as easy as that.”

 

* * *

 

Driving into Insomnia is surreal. Gladio slows down as they pass the gates, which are sitting in pieces to either side of the road. Rubble is strewn across the pavement, and as they pull past the wall the damage is finally revealed.  
  
“Holy shit,” Prompto breathes.  
  
“Describe it to me, please,” Ignis requests quietly. Prompto immediately complies in a subdued voice.  
  
The entire city has been decimated. Gladio can see maybe two buildings still standing intact from his view through the windshield, with the late morning light glinting off their few remaining windows. Roadways below the bridge lie heaved and cracked, long-abandoned cars tossed about like forgotten toys. A massive stone torso, one arm still intact, lies half-buried in the remains of an office tower, the broken remains of what looks like a crossbow in its hand.  
  
“The Old Wall,” Gladio says reverently. They pass in silence, Prompto’s voice trailing off. There are more statues to be seen in the distance, all in pieces and unmoving, but still recognizable.  
  
By the time they make it half way to the Citadel, the road’s become impassable.  
  
“Guess we’re heading in on foot.” Neither of his companions complain as they pile out of the truck, hands on their weapons. They haven’t seen a single sign of life, but…  
  
They didn’t make it through the dark by being complacent.  
  
The massive pile of rubble they’ve stopped in front of can’t be climbed; Gladio tries and nearly starts an avalanche.  
  
“Perhaps another route?” Ignis suggests.  
  
It takes only a few minutes to find the subway tunnel. “Jackpot!” Prompto says as they make their way down the stairs. It’s surprisingly clean and undamaged, and Gladio remembers enough of the layout of the tunnels to point them in the direction of the Citadel.  
  
Ignis pauses when they reach one of the more open areas, his head cocked to the side. His nostrils flare slightly. Both Prompto and Gladio stop. Ignis’ senses are sharper than theirs; if there’s anything ahead…  
  
“He’s been here,” Ignis says after a moment. “There are traces of his magic.”  
  
It’s a reassurance they all need; they’ve come to the right place after all.  
  
“Looks like we’re on the right track.” Prompto gives the space another scan before leading the way forward once more.  
  
When they finally emerge into the light again, the sun is hanging strongly overhead and it’s warm enough to remove their jackets. Gladio can’t help but think how long it’s been since they could do that, and he plants his sword in a long-dead garden bed beside the exit and stretches his arms above his head.  
  
“I’ll never get tired of it,” Prompto says as he turns his face toward the sunshine. “No matter how many sunburns I get.”  
  
They move on after taking a minute just to breathe. Gladio can see the walls of the Citadel just past the next few buildings.  
  
Hopefully, Noct will be there waiting.

 

* * *

 

They’re in what Ignis assumes is the plaza in front of the Citadel gates, based on the distance they’ve gone, when Prompto freezes.  
  
“Prompto?” Gladio asks. Ignis stops and makes his way back to where he can hear them breathing—just in time for Prompto to take off in the other direction. “Prompto!”  
  
Gladio darts after him, and Ignis keeps an ear on them while he picks his way over the cobblestones. Prompto apparently doesn’t go far, as the sound of his footsteps skids to a stop about twenty metres ahead.  
  
“No fuckin’ way.”  
  
“What is it?” Ignis asks as he catches up, daggers held tightly in his hands.  
  
“Just some clothes,” Gladio says dismissively. “C’mon, Prom, we have better things to take care of.”  
  
“No, dude, you don’t get it.” Prompto’s voice comes from waist height—crouched over something. “These are _Ardyn’s_ clothes.”  
  
It takes a moment for it to sink in. Neither of them ask if he’s sure.  
  
“Holy shit,” Gladio echoes.  
  
Ignis closes his eyes, letting the useless motion focus him. Now that he lets himself take notice, the feeling of Noct’s magic that has been saturating the air like particularly dense humidity has gained a… stronger _flavour_ here. There’s something else, something darker, floating there as well, but it’s faded and vague like every feeling of _daemon_ he’s sensed since the first dawn. “Is this where they battled, then?”  
  
He gives them a minute to look around, and finally Gladio moves off a few feet. “Looks like warp marks,” he says.  
  
“Metal strikes on the stones,” Prompto adds as he stands. “Armiger, probably.”  
  
“Two of them, if my guess is right,” Ignis says. “Ardyn was, after all, a Lucis Caelum long ago.”  
  
“Noct’s was stronger, though.” There’s a vicious sort of satisfaction in Gladio’s voice, and Ignis wonders what state the clothes are in to give him such confidence.  
  
Prompto asks the most salient question. “So if he won, where is he?”  
  
“I imagine he would have moved into the Citadel. He’s unlikely to have stayed outside for days, after all.”  
  
They give the plaza a once-over anyway, just in case, though they find nothing else. Ignis tries to ignore the odd feeling in his gut that whispers that something… isn’t right.  
  
When they step through the Citadel gates into the main square, Ignis stops them.  
  
“He summoned one of the Six here,” he says quietly. “No,” he corrects himself, tasting the cold bite of Shiva and something else, something sharper. “Two, if I’m not mistaken.”  
  
Prompto whistles. “Damn, Noct. Why would he have to do that?”  
  
Gladio’s voice comes from further ahead. “Probably because he was fighting the Betrayer.”  
  
Prompto and Ignis make their way forward, and Prompto whistles again at whatever he sees there.  
  
“Scorch marks,” Gladio says for Ignis’ benefit. “Massive ones. Bigger than anything Noct could’ve made with a fire flask.”  
  
“I woulda _paid_ to see that fight,” Prompto says reverently.  
  
“Hopefully there will never be a _need_ to,” Ignis replies sternly. Prompto gives a little chuckle, but it’s short-lived. Even he isn’t immune to the somber mood that seems to hang around the square—a battle between gods, to secure the future of the world.  
  
They move on after a few long, silent minutes.

 

* * *

 

The moment they step through the doors into the Citadel proper, Ignis suggests splitting up.  
  
“There’s little reason to investigate all together,” he reasons. “I doubt any daemons remain, and anything lesser is well within our abilities. And we can cover more ground.” He waits for their sounds of assent before continuing. “Prompto, as I’m sure the areas you’re most familiar with are the living quarters—”  
  
“On it,” Prompto says, more subdued than usual. They’ve all picked up on the strange atmosphere.  
  
“I’ll take the lower halls and training areas,” Gladio says.  
  
“And I’ll take the upper halls.” Ignis nods sharply. “If you find nothing, meet back here.”  
  
There’s little more to say, so they branch off quickly. Ignis makes his way to the elevator and the adjacent staircase, a familiar route that he’s walked hundreds of times in his life—though never without sight. It’s a strange feeling, but one he’s grown used to over the years.  
  
He tries the elevator button without really thinking about it, and… it dings, and there’s a hiss as the doors slide open.  
  
“Strange…” he mutters to himself as he steps inside. There’s little reason for it to still be operational, and yet…  
  
The foreboding feeling from the plaza increases as the elevator rises. When the doors open, he can’t help but take a step back as the weight of the air around him increases. There’s a sharp sting to the air, like a lightning bolt just after it strikes, and it tingles along his skin. The faint sweet-burnt scent that Ignis had come to associate with Noctis’ magic after Altissia hangs around him, flooding his nose more strongly than he’s ever smelled before. It’s tinged with something else, something _other_ , that he can’t identify.  
  
His nerves jangle, though not in the way that indicates an active threat.  
  
If Noct banished the Accursed in the plaza… Why is there so much more magic concentrated _here_?  
  
With significantly more wariness than before, Ignis proceeds forward, following not just his memory of the place but also the steady increase of pressure as he steps toward…  
  
The throne room.  
  
When he pushes the slightly-ajar door fully open, he’s practically assaulted by the overwhelming _stink_ of otherworldly magic. It slides along his skin and threatens to steal his breath, and he has to stop for a moment to gather himself and adjust.  
  
Something happened here. Something huge.  
  
“Your Majesty?” he tries once he gets his breath back. “Noctis?”  
  
There’s no reply. Ignis steps into the throne room, letting his feet drag slightly to provide some warning if there are obstacles on the floor. Undoubtedly some part of the invasion of Insomnia took place in this room, and he’s willing to bet it hasn’t been left in pristine condition.  
  
He shuffles forward, kicking a few bits of rubble and navigating around them toward the other end of the room. Once he starts getting used to it, he can almost trace the magic in the air as it swirls. The origin seems to be coming from the dais where the throne sits.  
  
There’s a sinking, trembling thing in his gut, something screaming _wrong wrong wrong_ , and he clenches his hands and ignores it.  
  
He finds the stairs, and immediately discovers they’re nearly impassable. Shuffling to the right there seems to be a clearer path, and he takes it warily. The pressure of the magic increases again, though it doesn’t feel… active. More as though it was used in such great quantities that it’s been hanging around the source ever since, slowly dissipating.  
  
Ignis reaches the top of the stairs. It’s another four steps to the throne.  
  
He hesitates.  
  
_Wrong wrong wrong!  
  
_ He draws a deep breath and steps forward. His hand makes contact with the armrest of the throne, and then—  
  
Something else. Something softer.  
  
He strips his gloves before he has a chance to think, laying fingers against cold skin and tracing down to find a hand, fingers—  
  
His own hands follow the arm up, finding a half-sleeve and the familiar edges of a jacket—  
  
His heart is hammering in his chest as his fingers skim across a collar to the skin of a throat, and there he lays them firmly down, shaking, waiting—  
  
There’s no pulse.  
  
He lurches forward, hands falling, _pull him off, get help, where are the potions—_ _  
  
_ And he encounters something cold, hard, and utterly unmoving. He runs his hand along it, a long piece of metal leading away, out into the room.  
  
A… a sword?  
  
There’s a frozen moment of blissful ignorance before comprehension blazes through him. His hand trembles as he lays it against a face he can’t see. His voice cracks and breaks, just once.  
  
“Oh, _Noct_ …”

 

* * *

 

Gladio stares down at the text from Ignis, a sliver of unease lancing through him.  
  
_[Throne room]_ _  
  
_ Nothing else. Iggy’s usually more specific, especially when they’re not being casual.  
  
Maybe it’s nothing.  
  
He’s just outside the main training room when he gets it, so it’s only a few minutes before he makes it up the stairs and down the winding hallways to the primary receiving areas. He runs into Prompto just outside the main hall, puffing slightly as he jogs through the door.  
  
“You think he found Noct?” he asks brightly. There’s a serious tilt to his eyes, but Gladio can see the incessant optimism shining through.  
  
“Guess we’ll see,” he grunts, trying not to let his uncertainty show.  
  
It’s just a few more halls before they reach the throne room. As they approach, Gladio notices one of the big doors hanging open.  
  
It’s… quiet. Unnaturally so.  
  
He hesitates at the door, something in him saying that he doesn’t want to go forward. He can’t pin it down, can’t make sense of it, but he _knows_ that if he walks through that door, everything will change.  
  
Prompto makes the decision for him.  
  
There’s a shuffle as the other man steps past the doorway, then an abrupt silence.  
  
And then…  
  
“ _NOCT!"  
  
_ There’s nothing bright in that shout as it splits the air, cracking like a whip and full of pain. Gladio’s feet drag him forward without his permission, and he steps through the door.  
  
He’ll never forget the sight for the rest of his life.  
  
Noct is so still. He’s dressed in the same battered, worn fatigues they’d seen him in last, dirty and torn in a few places and looking strangely small on his frame. His _older_ frame. His hair is longer, hanging over his face as his head falls forward, and there’s the whisper of a beard along the side of his jaw. His arms are resting quietly on the armrests of the throne. One hand is limp, lying half-curled against the wood, and the other is laced tightly with Ignis’.  
  
Ignis sits curled motionlessly on the other side of the armrest, his face tucked so tightly against it that Gladio can’t see anything of it. His knuckles are white with how hard he’s gripping Noct’s hand.  
  
Gladio’s eyes are drawn, inevitably, magnetically, to the massive sword thrust straight through his King’s chest.  
  
Everything is white noise. He can hear Prompto screaming, can see him dashing up the steps, calling Noct’s name over and over and _over_ , grabbing hold of his free arm and shaking him. He can see the rise and fall of Ignis’ chest, the way his hands curl impossibly tighter around Noct’s, how his shoulders hunch up further. He can hear the beat of his own heart, pounding louder and louder in his ears until there’s nothing else.  
  
_Thump…. Thump… Thump… Thump…_ _  
  
_ And then the world comes rushing back, like a bubble bursting.  
  
“ _NO!_ ”  
  
Gladio trips forward, stumbling like he never has in his life. Rubble catches at his feet, reaching with knife-like fingers to trip him. He falls twice and doesn’t feel the impact. His hands scrabble at the stairway banister, tearing his palms where the stone has broken, but he doesn’t care.  
  
He has to get—  
  
If he can just—  
  
He goes to his knees in front of the throne, breath wild, hands reaching, because all he needs to do is get there and _Noctis will be okay_ —  
  
When his hands reach cold, unmoving flesh, everything freezes.  
  
_He… he can’t…_ _  
  
_ Noct’s face is still under his hands, expression slack, eyes closed and unmoving. No air moves out of his lungs. No blood moves through his veins. There’s just… nothing.  
  
Time stands still for an eternity. _  
  
_ “Phoenix Down,” Gladio rasps. When no one responds, he wrenches his eyes from his king—his _dead king_ —to stare blankly at Ignis. “We need… We need Phoenix Down.”  
  
Ignis doesn’t move.  
  
Gladio shifts his gaze to Prompto, something rising in his chest—something with _teeth_. “We have to—there’s no _time_ , why are you—”  
  
Prompto stares at him, eyes wide and wet and uncomprehending.  
  
“It won’t work.” Ignis’ voice is nothing like it should be, rough and small and _empty_. “The magic is gone.”  
  
Gladio’s hands spasm, two fingers brushing through a lock of Noct’s hair and scratching across his beard.  
  
“He’s gone.”  
  
Prompto is draped over Noct’s arm, an unending litany of _no no no please no_ falling from his lips. Ignis is silent, still, so cold that you’d think he was frozen in ice, and Gladio—  
  
Gladio _snaps_.  
  
It might be words. It might be shouting. It might be a silent scream. He doesn’t know, doesn’t care, as something tears its way out of his throat, biting and ripping and shredding as it goes. The world seizes around him, ballooning out and then compressing down into nothing.  
  
_He’s gone.  
  
He’s gone.  
  
Your entire purpose is gone.  
  
Gone.  
  
Dead._ _  
  
_**_And you weren’t there to stop it._** _  
  
_ When reality comes crashing back, he can’t feel his hands. He looks down to find them a bloody mess, torn to shreds with pieces of stone embedded in his knuckles. His gaze travels down to the floor, where his sword—not _his sword_ , never, _his sword_ was lost when the Armiger was closed to them—where the sword he’s wielded for years lies shattered, the hilt thrown to the side and twisted pieces of sharpened metal strewn among the broken stone. Stone that bears the marks of a blade, over and over again.  
  
Prompto’s voice carries from very far away. “I-it’s… his _own sword_ —w-why would he—”  
  
“Not his own,” Ignis says blankly. “The Sword of the Father. I suspect…” There’s a long silence. “I suspect that there was a price to pay in order to dispel the darkness.”  
  
“But… but he already—How is that _fair_?” Prompto sobs.  
  
“There is very little that is fair when it comes to gods.”  
  
Gladio stares down at his hands. They’re shaking, dripping blood onto the floor.  
  
_Ptt. Ptt. Ptt.  
  
_ He still can’t feel anything. There’s a ringing in his ears, high pitched and incessant, like an old TV left on.  
  
Is he even breathing?  
  
He finds he doesn’t care.  
  
“What… what do we do now?” Prompto’s voice is tiny, like a child’s.  
  
_Nothing. We do nothing._ _  
  
_ “Continue,” Ignis’ voice says, though there’s nothing of Ignis left behind it.

 

 

 

 

 

 

* * *

_-Five weeks later-_

* * *

 

Prompto leans against the door and lets a quiet sigh leave his lungs, closing his eyes for a moment.  
  
Just a moment.  
  
Before he manages to fall asleep on his feet, he pushes off the door and turns the handle. The apartment is dark when he steps inside, and he almost trips over a pair of shoes left in the middle of the mat. He shoves them aside with a foot before crouching to remove his own.  
  
He doesn’t bother turning on a light as he moves into the kitchen.  
  
He tests the faucet. Still no water yet.  
  
He tries the fridge next. The light comes on inside, which means there’s still power to their sector. No one’s managed to accidentally cut the temporary line yet. The fridge itself is mostly empty, save for a half-eaten box of food from the refugee kitchen and a moldy potato sitting on the shelf.  
  
He chucks the potato. Tries to work up the appetite to eat the leftovers. Fails. Closes the fridge.  
  
There are six empty Ebony cans in the sink. He stacks them to the side.  
  
There’s a little light coming in through the living room window, and Prompto wanders over to look outside. There’s a light misty rain falling, making the lights from the other refugee apartments shimmer oddly. There are three buildings, the only three fully intact in the city, home to the two hundred or so people who’ve wandered back to Insomnia over the last few weeks. Some came looking for help—some came looking _to_ help.  
  
He turns from the window after a long moment.  
  
The bedroom door is hanging half-open, and he nudges it carefully until the little bit of light spills through. The blackout curtains are drawn, leaving the room in near-complete darkness. Clothes are strewn haphazardly across the floor, piled around with nothing to put them in. An old, rescued mattress is pressed into the far corner.  
  
They’re both there. Huh.  
  
Prompto leans against the doorway, just watching them breathe. Gladio’s face is hidden, pressed tightly into the lumpy pillow under his head. His back is turned to the wall, his shoulders tucked up defensively. There’s a new slash across his tricep, undoubtedly from some coeurl or voretooth in the week since Prompto’s seen him. It’s surprising to see him back at all—usually he’s gone for days at a time without word, but Iris said something about him popping in yesterday. Maybe her couch was too lumpy.  
  
Ignis looks like he simply walked into the room and fell into bed, clothes and all. There are lines on his face even in sleep, his mouth twisted into a hard frown and his eyes darting behind their lids—watching whatever it is they can’t see when he’s awake. He’s still wearing his gloves, and both hands seem to have migrated to Gladio’s tank top, clutching it tightly. He’s more expressive sleeping than he ever is awake. There’s a coffee stain on his white shirt, and it’s probably the first time Prompto’s seen him actually letting himself crash in three days.  
  
He makes his way slowly into the room, easing the door shut behind him. He strips off his shirt and jeans, dirt-covered and ripped from today’s excavation near the eastern wall. He runs a hand through his hair, sweeping out the worst of the dust and bits of rock, and kicks the clothes into the pile against the wall. He feels around blindly on the rickety bedside table, eventually catching hold of the shape of the phone he’d accidentally left behind that morning. Crouching, he feels around on the floor until he locates the charger and stuffs it into the bottom of the device.  
  
Can’t be late in the morning. Work to do.  
  
That done, he eases himself onto the small space left on the mattress, careful not to wake either of the others. Ignis must feel his presence even in his sleep, because a moment later one of his hands slides over and presses against Prompto’s chest.  
  
Feeling his heartbeat.  
  
Some of the tension eases out of Ignis’ frame, though not much. Prompto lays his head back, too tired to care that there’s no pillow. Tomorrow morning, he’ll be back out there. Moving stone. Scavenging supplies. Unearthing bodies.  
  
Same as every other day.  
  
He lets his eyes fall closed and just breathes.  
  
Gladio goes out and fights whatever monsters are left until he can barely lift his sword. Ignis throws himself into rebuilding the economy and the government like there’s a deadline before the end of the world. And Prompto…  
  
Prompto’s just… numb. Some days he forgets why. Most days he doesn’t.  
  
Everyone deals in their own ways.

 

* * *

 

He jerks awake to the sound of insistent beeping.  
  
Groaning, he flails his hand toward the side table, blindly feeling for his phone. When he gets a hold of it he wrenches the charger out and pulls it toward him, opening bleary eyes to stare at the screen.  
  
_[No cellular service]_ blinks at him in bright blue letters in time with the cheerful _beep beep! Beep beep!_ _  
  
_ Running a hand over his face, he swipes the notification away, fully prepared to turn the damn thing off and deal with whatever’s wrong with it in the morning. It takes him a second to realize that the lock screen background… isn’t right.  
  
It’s a shaky selfie of Prompto’s face, and smiling next to him is…  
  
Noct.  
  
This is Noct’s background.  
  
_This is Noct’s phone.  
  
_ Prompto sits up suddenly, the phone falling from nerveless hands. He jerks around to the bedside table to see his own phone, probably long dead and silent, tucked neatly behind the lamp like Ignis always does if he finds it somewhere else. There’s nothing else on the night table except…  
  
A note.  
  
Prompto grabs for it and holds it in shaking fingers.

  
  
_Found this under some rubble by the throne during excav today. Figure it belongs to you guys now._

_-Iris_

He exhales long and low, letting the note fall from his hands and lowering his forehead to his knees.  
  
He can’t tell how long it is before he manages to lift his head and reach for the phone. There’s a long, frightening moment before he hits the home button, letting the screen light up on the selfie.  
  
He remembers it. Not that day, specifically, but the photo. They’d been on the road somewhere, letting Gladio sit in the front seat for once, and Noct had actively been trying to take the most incredibly awful selfie possible just to bug him. Because he kept complaining about how Noct didn’t know how to take pictures properly.  
  
Something in him tries to rear up and scream, and Prompto shoves it down viciously.  
  
He’s on autopilot as he drags a numb finger across the screen and enters the password—the same one Noct’s had since high school, the same as his locker combination in freshman year. He doesn’t know what he’s planning to do, what he’s looking for, but whatever it is gets derailed at the banner notification that spans the top of the screen once it unlocks.

 

_Audio recording interrupted. File autosaved._

_[Continue recording]_

_[Play recording]_

He doesn’t know why he presses play, doesn’t even think for a moment what it might be, but his body jolts like it’s been electrified as Noct’s voice comes through the speaker.

 

* * *

 

 _“I can’t even believe this thing still works.”_ The words are shaky but clear. His voice is… strange. Older, maybe. A little more tired. _“Figured it would have gone to shit with however long it’s been… Was gonna try calling, but the cell towers are probably all down ’cause it’s not getting a signal.”_ There’s a rustle and a little crackle. _“Probably not enough battery for a call anyway. Camera won’t even turn on. So I… I guess it’s just this?”  
  
_ There’s a rush of static as he exhales. _“I don’t know if anyone will even hear this, but… might as well, right? So, um… Whoever’s listening, I hope there’s light. That everything worked out. I killed the guy behind it, so now there’s just one thing left to do and you’ll get the sun back. I… fuck.”_ A long pause. _“If… There are a few people I’d like you to show this message to, if you can. I think… I think they’re alive, or they should be. They’re hard bastards to kill, anyway.”_ An unsteady chuckle. _“So, if you can, deliver this message to Ignis Scientia, Gladiolus Amicitia, or Prompto Argentum. Whoever you find first.”  
  
_ There’s another long pause and the sounds of shifting fabric.  
  
_“I knew I’d be bad at this,”_ he says at last. _“So I’ll just… start with what you’re probably wondering most. I got your message. With Umbra. About meeting in Hammerhead. And I know you guys are probably fucking pissed, especially you, Gladio, but I just… I couldn’t. I thought about it—Gods, I thought about it the entire fucking time coming up from Galdin Quay, every single time a daemon showed up or I had to used this Six-damned ring, and I couldn’t stop… stop wondering where you were, how you were surviving, knowing you were out there fucking waiting for me, and I wanted so bad to just_ go _—”_ Noct’s voice cracks right down the middle of the word, and he draws in a noisy breath. _“I wanna say it’s because I didn’t want you getting hurt, when we came to Insomnia, and I didn’t—if one of you died for me, it wouldn’t make a fucking bit of difference because either way I’m dead. At least this way you’re all safe.  
  
“But I spent… what felt like _ forever _in that damn Crystal, with—with Bahamut and a ring and the prophecy that I have to_ die _to bring light back into the world, and all that time was just me accepting it. Accepting that… that I don’t get to see the sunrise, that I don’t get to… to grow old with you idiots, that I don’t even get to be King for longer than a few days. Do you know how hard that is? And then when I finally get it right, when I’ve meditated my way to inner fucking peace, I get to breathe fresh air again. And then there’s a message saying you’ve all been waiting this whole time, waiting for_ me _, and I knew, I fucking_ knew _, that the second I saw your stupid faces all that time spent accepting it would just_ disappear _. I knew I had to be stronger, had to take that damned resolve and use it before I lost it, and I couldn’t… I c-couldn’t do it with you there. I wanted to,_ of course _I wanted to, but I_ just couldn’t _.”  
  
_ There’s a choked laugh. _“And you wanna know what the stupidest thing is?”_ He’s openly sobbing now, words starting to run together. _“Now that I’m here, and Ardyn’s dead, and it’s time to actually do what I set out to do, it’s all gone. Every bit of it. I thought I was ready—I thought I was fucking_ ready _, and all I can think about is how I was too stupid to even let myself see you again._ _How I was too much of a coward to let myself be tempted, and now… now I’m sitting here alone and all I want is to have you guys here at my back like you always are. Because I can’t… I can’t do this alone.”  
  
_ There’s a long, heavy silence, broken only by muffled, choked off sobs.  
  
_“I’m so fucking scared,”_ he rasps at last. _“Not a very kingly thing to be, but that’s just how it is. Now I know how my dad felt, sending us away like that. I came this far and now I’m stalling at the g-godsdamned finish line. Two seconds and it’ll be done and everyone can go on with their lives, and I can’t even get it right. But I—I…”  
  
_ There’s a little beep. _“Fuck, one percent left. This is a pretty shitty last message, isn’t it? I figured it would help… I dunno, make this_ fucking easier _, but it doesn’t, ’cause now all I’m thinking about is one of you finding—”  
  
_ There’s a series of shaky breaths, getting progressively longer. Finally he continues.  
  
_“I need you to promise me something. I—I can’t go through with this without asking, because I know… I know what it’ll be like. After. I know_ you _._ _So even… even if—if you find me, if the Astrals are that fucking unfair, I need you to_ live _. The world’s all gone to shit now and someone has to help pick up the pieces, and I can’t think of anyone better than the three of you. I know you’re probably gonna be in the thick of it no matter what, but you have to… Fuck, I just want Gladio throwing a bunch of new baby Crownsguard through the ringer, and… and Iggy taking it as a personal challenge to feed up every single sad-looking kid who wanders back into the city, and Prom opening up some kind of stupid art gallery where everyone can wow over pictures of baby chocobos and shit. I want… I want you doing what you_ want _to, and not just because I_ told _you to.  
  
“You don’t—none of you _ need _me, Gods, you’re so damn perfect all on your own, and I can’t stand the thought that it might end with me. Please, just… just_ keep going _.”  
  
_ A short, ragged breath.  
  
_“I love you. I love all of you so much it hurts to even think about it. I loved you every second in that Crystal and every moment before and I’ll keep loving you from the fucking afterlife. Don’t you_ dare _follow me any sooner than you have to. I need you to walk tall. Together. You deserve everything good in the world, and I… I’m the luckiest man for having known you.  
_  
_“So… I guess this is—”_

 

* * *

 

The recording ends.  
  
Prompto stares at the phone in his hand, uncomprehending, as the _[Replay?]_ prompt flashes across the screen. It takes him several seconds to feel his other hand clenched over his mouth, so tightly that he can barely feel his fingers.  
  
There’s a sound like a wounded animal to his right, and he whips his head toward it.  
  
Ignis is sitting up, eyes wide and unseeing, and his hands are both clenched impossibly tight in his hair. He’s shaking like he’s going to rattle apart, and as another wail tears its way out of his throat, Prompto realizes—  
  
He’s crying. For the first time since they found Noct.  
  
“Fucking _idiot_ ,” Gladio says in a voice made of broken glass from Ignis’ other side.  
  
It’s only then that Prompto notices the wetness on his own cheeks and fingers, and he unclenches his hand from his mouth and stares down at it, uncomprehending.  
  
And then the thing he’s been suppressing, the monster he’s been pushing down and down and _down_ as far as possible for weeks, breaks free.  
  
And all three of them shatter.

 

* * *

 

They replay the message over and over in the darkness. Sometimes they can’t hear the words. Sometimes they can’t _stop_.  
  
It’s not a healing. They lie together and tear open wounds again and again, tangled up in the last bits of themselves left behind and an invisible empty space that will never be filled. It doesn’t get easier. It doesn’t hurt less. And it won’t, perhaps ever. But lying in the dark, clinging to the only piece of their king they have left…  
  
It feels, finally, like a goodbye.

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> I accidentally OT4
> 
> also you can pry the Dead Man Writing trope from my cold dead hands
> 
> I'm not sorry
> 
>  
> 
> (...maybe a little)


End file.
